1991: We may have moved in, but the house is not finished. Every morning, trucks line the driveway and the street. I must be fully dressed when I come downstairs. Before I start the coffee, I can smell the possibility and hope. I can see all the light and the unfilled spaces. Kathleen turns 10. Bobby likes to cook. And every day, it seems, Jack is covered in blood. Cal walks in the door and I hand Jack over and they head for the hospital. In May I leave for Paris. I stay in a small hotel in the Place des Vosges, have breakfast in the same cafe every morning, go to French films, walk everywhere, speak only French. The summer is Ponte Vedra. The fall is the circus and the fair and birthdays. This year Bobby turns 4 and Jack, 2. We have an Old MacDonald party for both at the end of the cul-de-sac–yes, we are in the thick of the suburbs now. After the hay ride, Jack discovers red ants, his puffy little hands covered in bites. In October, another church photo. James Taylor sings Copperline… The Braves make it to the World Series. Cal, Kathleen, and I get to go. Minnesota wins the series, but we give them seven games.

26 days to 60


Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver